


I watched you survive until you escaped

by seeyaloki



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:02:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeyaloki/pseuds/seeyaloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But Max smiled contagiously when he got back. And so the old bottles of wine were brought up by some of the younger people and laughs were shared. To living, they said. And it sounded genuine for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I watched you survive until you escaped

"Here's to how much time we got left, I guess." he says.

He watches him from a distance, fire in his eyes and fight in his bones. Illuminescant, Daryl thinks. Brighter than anything in this world has the right to be.

"Here's to being alive and kicking, yeah?"

Cheers and the sound of glass bumping together. It's all he can think about after, when the party has died and drooping eyes have closed. Bruises on his face, blood soaking his shirt and still so bright. Glenn's talking to him, about colleges and majors. About before. He's still wary but beginning to accept that the past was a part of him once, too. Max does that to people, he's noticed. He makes them reflect, remenisce. Like blood and gore aren't the only things they're used to these days.

There's a tattoo on his shoulder, about the same height of the highest demon on his back. It's a rose, five petals, faded red and green. It was a drunken mistake. Or at least that's what he said when he asked him about it. Too much tequila and too little self-preservation.

_"I don't regret it, though. There's mistakes you have to make, throughout your whole life. Otherwise your skin will still be flawless by the time you're eighty and that just means you haven't lived yet. This tattoo? Big mistake and ugly as shit. But at least I've lived, you know? At least you can_ _tell."_

Max has a way with words. Like he has a way with everything. With the kids running around Alexandria and with the bow he was carrying when he collapsed in front of their gates that first day, walker guts everywhere and bulletwound in his shoulder. But a way with words, mostly. He can rope everyone into a conversation, keep you talking until you've revealed things you didn't want anyone to know. It was like that with Daryl, kept him talking until he was laid bare for the world to see. Words he'd never spoken and parts of himself he'd never showed.

_"Don't think it works that way with the scars on my back, kid."_

It was out before he knew it. Eyes wide and mouth snapping shut. But Max didn't look at him any different than he did before. He still doesn't. Even when Glenn has abandoned the conversation to cover Maggie with a blanket and Max catches his eye, same smile he gives everyone else on his face. Like Daryl's no exception, like he's worth the same amount everyone else is.

_"But it does, though. You've got scars and I don't know how you got them or how bad they are, but you survived, right? You're still here, aren't you? I've got scars, too. Ugly sons of bitches covering way too much inches of my skin. But the only thing I see when I look at them is proof. Evidence that I survived. That I almost didn't, but I did. That's gotta mean something. It's gotta be worth something, at least."_

It still takes him a while to muster up the courage to smile back. It's difficult smiling at someone like everything's fine when that person knows everything about you is not. Maybe even more than you know yourself. Max walkes over then, glass in his hand, a spark in his eyes that never quite fades away. He sits down next to Daryl, shoulder to hip. Closer than he ever let anyone before, except maybe Rick or Carol.

"Alive and kicking, huh?"

The smile on his face gets impossibly bigger. It lights up his face even more, blond hair slick with blood and a cut near his eyes that hasn't completely dried yet. He nearly died today. Caught in a herd, nothing to do but fight or die trying. He made it out, broken arrows and bloody clothes but he did. Max doesn't see situations like that the same everyone else does. He doesn't look at it like he almost died, he looks at it like just another day he survived. It's admirable, but it's dangerous. Living life like it's a celebration can make you lose caution. Can make you forget about the dangers out there.

But Max smiled contagiously when he got back. And so the old bottles of wine were brought up by some of the younger people and laughs were shared. To living, they said. And it sounded genuine for once.

"You don't agree, do you? I know you don't. But it's true, Daryl. I'm still here."

One of his hands slides up his arm, calloused and scarred, like the rest of his body. He grabs Daryl's right hand, presses it to his chest. Heartbeat strong and even.

"You feel that? Still alive, Daryl."

"And kicking?"

"Always kicking."

He lets go of Daryl's hand and sighs. He's tired. There are sleepless nights for all of them, nightmares and memories a bad combination. Max is up every night, he sees him sometimes when he's on watch. Sees him pacing on the porch of the house he calls his own, cigarette between his fingers and a frown on his face. The evidence of those sleepsless hours are visisble on his face.

"You should get some rest. You look like shit."

He laughs, but it's a hollow sound. The high of his survival is starting to wear off, eyes drooping closed and chin to his chest.

"Yeah, maybe you've got a point there. I'll see you tomorrow, right? Hunting trip?"

"Sure."

He pushes himself up with a hand on Daryl's thigh. Fingertips leaving imprints in his jeans. He watches him leave, smiling and saying goodnight to all the people he passes, weary and barely a ghost of the person he was when he got back. Bright and illuminescant till the day he dies. But there's cracks in his foundations, Daryl thinks. Barely there, but he sees. That's the thing about his scars. He might've survived, but he forgets sometimes, that that's not all there is to living.

*********************************

The lights in Alexandria are brighter than he's used to. They spend months on end living in the woods with only a weak fire and a flashlight as sources of light. Huddled close together and suspicious sounds all over. There's too much space here. Too many fake smiles and it's quiet. It's unfamiliar and the forest felt more like home than any of the cosy houses ever can.

Max is pacing, only visible in the blinding light coming from the porchlight. He's nervous. Daryl can tell from where he's watching from his own porch, Rick and Judith dozing on the bench beside him. Max feels it, too. The unfamiliarity he feels for this community. For the clean streets and the picketfences. He paces constantly, biting fingernails and fumbling for a cigarette. Max puts on a nice mask for the people of Alexandria. But Daryl is used to the forest, where it was all about authenticity. Back to basics, survival of the fittest. Not about smiles and clean clothes, but grimaces of pain and exhaustion, dirt beneath fingernails. That is the reality of this new world, and Max puts on a mask to cover up the wear and tear of what it did to him.

_"If you think about it, you're not so different, you and him. Same hypervigilance, same distrust of this place. The only difference? He's better at pretending than you are."_

Carol was right. Daryl notices it, too. In the little things. In the way he bites his lip when he doesn't know what to say. The way he checks all of his arrows before taking them to hunt. The way he paces, tired and injured, like he does every night. Looking like he'd rather sleep on the cold ground instead of a warm bed, simply because he got used to it over the years. Those are the cracks in his foundations and Daryl sees them, looks right through his facade because Carol was right and they really aren't all that different, at all.

"Go to him." Rick says, always noticing. Like it's nothing. Like it's ever really that simple.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

His gaze lifts up from his daughter, blue eyes leaving her for the first time since the moment they came out here. Judith fell asleep, huddled close to her daddy's chest. She's the only unscathed thing in this world. Clean and innocent. A second chance. The only hope they have. That maybe, hopefully she'll get the chance to treat the world better the next time around.

"Cause he don't want me to. He wants to talk to me, he'll come. It's not my decision to make."

Rick scoffs, secures Judith in his arms and carries her inside. But not before stopping next to Daryl, hand warm on his shoulder.

"He's scared, Daryl. And alone. He's not showing it, but he is. He's been out there for a long time and so have we. But you always had someone to protect, to help you. He's only ever had himself. No one to make decisions for him. No one to talk to about what to do, about where to go next, about surviving or giving up. Point is, Daryl. I think he's had enough decision making for a while."

And then he walks inside, whispering soft words to his girl. Daryl's afraid to turn around, because he knows what he'll find there. The nervous pacing and exhaustion clear on Max's face.

_"I see the way he looks at you, Daryl. Like you can fill up that hole he has in his chest. Like you can see right through him. Maybe you can, maybe you can't. Either way, wouldn't hurt to give it a shot."_ Carol had said.

And it's stupid, but he forgets sometimes. That there are people in this world that know him. That Max doesn't have those, anymore. And that it's time for both of their masks to drop, for once.

************************************************  
Max moves through the woods like a cat. Sly and cautious, hardly making a sound as he steps over leaves and twigs. His bow is like an extension of his arm, pointed towards the treeline ahead in a straight line, unmoving, not even a shiver running through his body in the cold morning air.

They've been going at it for hours but there's hardly any game. Daryl is losing focus, no longer having an ear out for the slightest sound. It's dangerous, dropping your guard that easily but he's so caught up in the way Max moves. So graceful, like the woods are his territory and he belongs there. So caught up that he doesn't notice he's stopped moving, watching Max move like he's a part of the forest around him. He doesn't notice until it's too late.

He doesn't hear the walker, but he feels it. Decaying hands way stronger than they have any right to be, push him, shoulder slamming into a tree. His crossbow lands somewhere in the dirt, out of his reach. He crawls closer to the tree, presses his back into the bark like it could swallow him. He thinks in that moment, that he's done for. Survived so long but dying eventually because he couldn't keep his eyes pointed to where they should have been.

It's not an arrow but it's a knife. Rusty and old, hardly sharp enough. It's only because of the pure strength in Max' arms that he manages to slam it into the walker's skull. His breathing is heavy and his eyes are wide. Max offers his hand and he  _is_  shivering this time.

"Jesus fucking christ, are you okay?"

Daryl wipes the sweat of his brow and reaches for his crossbow. But he doesn't get the chance to grab it before there's a shaking hand gripping his wrist.

"Daryl, are you okay?"

Max looks scared. More so than Daryl's ever seen him before. He knows. He knows Daryl wasn't paying attention when he should have. He knows it's too dangerous to be out there with someone who can't focus on his surroundings. But he doesn't look like he's going to yell at him, or even lecture him. He looks guilty. Like he knows the whole reason of Daryl's lack of awareness was because he couldn't keep his eyes off of him.

"Yeah, I'm good. No need to look like someone pissed in your cornflakes, kid. Things like this happen."

"Doesn't mean you should get used to it."

It comes to him then, that Max really isn't used to it. He's hypervigilant and careful. When he was out in the open by himself even more so. But he was also alone, and isn't that the part that Daryl always forgets about? Rick's words come to mind. That Max has been alone in this from the start. That he's never had other people to care about. Whether they lived or died.

"Hey, I'm fine. Hey!"

Max's gaze lifts up to his face, mask dropping. Out here in the woods, where no one's listening to how heavy his breathing is or seeing how wide his eyes are, how he's shaking all over and that damn smile is wiped off his face. Out here, Daryl can see how exhausted he is.

"I'm fine, Max. I am."

It takes a while before he nods. Shiver leaving his body and game face back. He grabs his bow, checks all the arrows like he always does. He doesn't say a word when he turns around but his body says it all. The tense line in his shoulders and the scowl on his face showing determination to succeed, vigilant with every step that he takes.

Eventually, Max shoots a deer. Points his arrow and doesn't even wait for the damn thing to stop moving. Like a predator. One arrow is all it takes, right in the jugular. Every walker they run into on the way back to Alexandria gets the same treatment. And on top of that, the rustly, old knife to the head.

It's easy to forget, how lethal he can be. When they found Max, bleeding out in front of their gates, he looked weak. Barely skin and bones, like a house of cards waiting to collapse. It's even easier to forget when they get back to camp and the smile is back on his face. He just looks like a boy, young and innocent. Unknowing. But survival is written across his face, etched into his bones. It's all he knows, from the moment he got here it's been his mantra. That surviving is the most important thing.

But he looks back at Daryl before he dissapears into his house, as if to make sure he's still there. Hard lines and tired, so damn tired. Daryl thinks, after he's dropped his bow and arrow on the bench on the porch, that he'd like to show him, somehow. What it's like to live.

************************************************  
"What are you doing here, Daryl?"

Max looks small under the weak light of the kitchen. His back is turned to him and both of his hands are resting on top of the counter, as if he's holding himself up. It's scary, how he can go from smiling bright and big, to someone who looks like he's about to fall down and won't even bother to pick himself back up.

"You look like shit."

He laughs but it's fake. It takes a toll on you, smiling every day like you're fine. While underneath your skin,  you're burning. And underneath your shirt, your scars are hiding and it's not pretty. It's not evidence or proof. It's damage. Damage that can't be repaired, but it can be covered up. Max covers his scars up with that damn smile, but he forgets. He forgets that Daryl has scars as well, and that it takes one damaged person to know one.

"That's the second time you've said that in two days. I'm sorry if my damn appearance is offending you, Daryl. Not like I can take a day off and go to the spa, can I?"

"When are you going to stop?"

Max's shoulders slump. His head drops even lower. It's like a tension left his body. Like he's stopped fighting.

Daryl moves closer, until he's less than a single step away from fitting right against his back. He lifts a hand, let's it fall on top of Max's shoulder. He sighs, defeated.

"All the other idiots in this shithole might actually be stupid enough to believe you when you walk in here, smiling like you won the damn lottery or something. But I'm not. Because when I look at you, all I can see is how much you're pretending. How exhausted and how damn scared you are."

He lets his hand slide down, down the planes of his back around his waist. Careful, because he knows there's a bruise there. Daryl was there when he took of his shirt at the infirmary, broke apart for the time it took to patch him up and then put himself back together.

"You have to stop wearing this mask." He whispers and Max turns around then, eyes meeting his. They're close, chest to chest and he's so damn broken, it hurts even more to see him like that up close. 

"I'm just trying to survive, Daryl."

"You're killing yourself."

And he thinks they both give up then, or maybe give in. Both hands on his body and falling into eachother. Max's lips are soft, perhaps the only part of him undamaged, tongue careful and sweet curling around his.

When they pull away, it's to press their foreheads together, breath colliding and eyes finding eachother.

"Only for you." Max whispers. "I'll only stop pretending for you."

Daryl nods and presses a hand to Max's cheek and leans in for another kiss. He thinks of how alone he must have felt and how he isn't anymore. How it's time for Max to realise that as well.

"I can live with that."

He stays until Max falls asleep on the couch, still not ready to move on to the bedroom. The hard lines beneath his eyes are soft now, body relaxing and finding the rest it needs. He still looks small. But Daryl realises that maybe he looks small sometimes, too. And that they can help lift eachother up, from time to time.

************************************************  
Max's body is soft beneath his. Shirt unbuttoned and pushed aside, he looks brand new. Daryl's shirt is thrown somewhere to the ground, jeans half undone and it's been so long since he's felt like this. Like he could lose himself in another person.

Max is all soft moans and heavy breathing. Bruising kisses and eyes never leaving eachother. He doesn't know how they ended up here. From discussing hunting techniques to tumbling into Daryl's bed, hands roaming beneath shirts and waistbands.

Hips sliding together, Max's hands are everywhere. Gripping his shoulder, slipping down to his stomach, trying to push his jeans all the way down. Daryl lets him, lifting up and watching Max remove those last items of clothing, throwing them aside with the rest of Daryl clothes. They're naked then, nothing seperating them anymore. Daryl lowers his body down onto Max's, gripping his thighs and wrapping his legs around his waist. Their dicks slide together and it's the best thing he's felt in years. One of Max's hands is in his hair, pulling him into a kiss. The other one is on his back, urging him closer.

"C'mon, Daryl."

He grabs the lube they stole from Glenn and Maggie. They thought about this before, but so far it's never been anything more than quickly getting off. Pushing eachother up against walls, hands down pants but never more than that. This is new for both of them, and figuring out the right way isn't the easiest thing to do.

He slides a finger inside of him, watches Max bite his lip and grimace. He kisses it away, curls his free hand around his dick and watches the grimace turn into something a lot softer than that.

One finger becomes two and before he knows it, Max is squirming underneath him, trying to turn around.

"No, stop. Stop. I wanna look at you."

Max nods, kisses him and he's nervous. Face screwed up when Daryl pushes into him for real this time. The heat of Max's body is unfamiliar. It takes him a while to adjust. The same look of pain on his face. It's not until Max kisses him and tells him it's okay to move, that he pulls out again. Slow and careful as Max's mouth drops open and another moan leaves his lips.

They go like that, slow and steady, clinging to eachother, kissing between heavy breaths. It doesn't take long before Daryl feels the familiar pressure build up in his stomach. Max is almost there, too. He can see it in the way he can't keep his eyes open and his breathing becomes louder with every slide of their bodies.

He comes with Daryl's name on his lips, one hand digging into his back, the other gripping the back of his thigh, urging him on. Daryl finishes like that, mouths and eyes finding eachother. Daryl pushes the sweat slicked hair away from Max's forehead and he smiles up at him, genuinly, like he hasn't done in such a long time.

"You should get some sleep. You promised Aaron you'd teach him how to use the bow, remember?"

Max laughs and nods, already looking forward to Aaron being a no doubt hopeless student. Daryl goes into the bathroom to get a washcloth and wipes Max's stomach clean. It's quiet after that, boxers back on and lights off. Max crawls up close to him, skin still damp with sweat but it's a welcome weight pressing into his side. He wraps and arm around his waist, one more kiss and then he's out cold.

Daryl watches him for a while, a strand of blond hair gets sweeped aside everytime he breathes out. He still looks exhausted and he still smiles when they only thing he should be doing is tend to his injuries and remember the fact that surviving isn't the only thing he's doing here.

But he doesn't pace anymore at night, not even when he sleeps in in his own house and the only way for Daryl to see him is to occasionally slip inside to remove shoes or throw a blanket over him.

Carol caught him doing exactly that a few days ago. Like a deer in headlights he'd stared at her where she was leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest and a satisfied smirk on her face.

_"Told you so."_ She'd said.

And he couldn't even find it in himself to care.


End file.
